


The Hireling

by Ruler_of_Nope_Island



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Francis Crozier is not happy ever, M/M, Mentioned Character Death, Mythology - Freeform, finished without completion, folk horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Nope_Island/pseuds/Ruler_of_Nope_Island
Summary: Francis Crozier has a farm that's failing, a true love who's died tragically, and a drinking problem. Then a strange young man appears and events escalate. Dr. Goodsir, the district's new doctor, tries to untangle the mystery before the strange, ancient forces in the town claim more lives.Edit: will remain unfinished - summary at the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to lie, this is quite thematically similar to Crooked House, but more Wicker Man than Hammer Horror.

The pub’s always the best place to go if you’re looking for a spare pair of hands come harvest; backpackers, wanderers, runaways, they are cheap to feed and easy to put up with, especially if their English isn’t good. No internet out here and phone reception is patchy at best and there’s only one bus in and out of town. The people Francis Crozier hires are usually quiet and desperate and don’t stay too long. 

They tell stories about him in the pub, he knows they do. John, always keen to play Lord of the manor, puts in a good word here and there but doesn’t correct them. Besides, sometimes the stories are right: he is a sour bastard, he drinks, and his farm is dying. He was in love with Sophia, belle of the district, but she went off to university and then off to an NGO somewhere in Asia. Or maybe Africa. Whenever her name is mentioned he drinks more. Esther won’t have him in the house any more so he walks the long cold road home and Old Thomas drives his car back to the farm in the morning.

No joy at the pub, though. Plenty of fun to be had; pool, the same old tired stories, whiskey, a round of singing. Invitations for Christmas. Yes, fun to be had. Just not by him. Francis knows they tell stories of his last hired hand, _his_ Thomas; running from a junkie mother and a going-nowhere job in an office, had been sitting on the pub on a night just like this one. Blue eyed and lovely by the fire, smiling at no one, with his neat little rucksack at his feat. When his eyes turned to meet Francis’s, his heart had lept in his chest. 

It took forty minutes of conversation for him to join Francis in the car. That could have started a rumour but that was between his second and third proposal to Sophia so that area of Francis’s life has, at least, not become the subject of gossip. 

Worse than gossip, even: Young Thomas had died in the spring. Hit his head in the dark, alone in a field, far away from where Francis could have heard him calling for help. That’s if Thomas was conscious enough to call. Thomas left the village in a tiny box to be buried in the same grave as the mother who’d cared more about her next hit than him. Francis wanted to wrench the box from Thomas’s brother’s hands; scatter his ashes among the hills he professed to love, all the while staring into Francis’s eyes. They’d never even so much as held hands but they knew, heart and soul. They both knew. 

Bad-luck Frank. By Autumn this year the district’s furnished him with a score of farmhands who died under mysterious circumstances. It’s bad enough with the fucking stone circle up in the north field and the white beast carved into the hillside. And his twelve brothers and sisters under the long grass at St. George’s. Even back then, they say, it was pretty unusual to have and lose that many children. 

His father and mother had come from Ireland; bought the farm which had lain fallow for as long as anyone could remember. Being Irish they should have known better, people said. As if they had come from the rolling hills of the South and not a small town in Northern Island that ran on the cloth trade. Francis had been sent back there to complete his schooling; the endless parade of tiny coffins was getting to him.

Always the outsider. He’d come back with an Irish accent at thirteen, once his parents had finally figured out that perhaps childbearing was not for them. And even though he had not been back to Ireland since, and even though he would help anyone who asked, worked stalls at every church fete, assisted with lambings and harvests and funerals and roof repairs, he was still not one of them. Not really a villager. Just a strange, sour man with a dying farm he hadn’t the sense to sell. The local ogre. 

Old Thomas always kept a seat warm for him at the pub; was generous with his credit. But even his patience wasn’t without limits. In fact, this very night, he’d turned Francis out, telling him to walk it off and apologise to James when he was sober. Fucking hell. What kind of cruel parent called their kid James Fitzjames? The shitbag was one of the lads, telling his dull stories again and again. He was rumoured to be buying up John’s place; there was much talk about solar panels and organics and free range chickens. 

Foxes were always at Francis’s chickens, so he stopped keeping them. His flocks of sheep dwindled every year. Farm cats went feral. His dog, sad-faced and baffled, was hit by a lorry. Nothing seemed to flourish but the weeds and brambles; come August, he usually had a fine crop of blackberries. But local children never went there to pick them, fearing Bad old Frank and his legions of ghostly farmhands and his great black devil dog and his pixies and whatever the fuck their parents told them to keep them away. The fruit rotted on the vine. Even the mice avoided the place.

Why has the world conspired to break his heart in every way it could? He pulled his coat around himself, knowing that it was only the whiskey that kept him warm. Hypothermia wasn’t the worst way to go but he’d rather die in his own bed rather than a muddy ditch. Poor Neptune. Sometimes Francis stood at the door and called for him, still. 

He managed to make it back to his front door, dog-tired and head already pounding. His bed seemed too far away, so he kicked off his boots and lay down on the threadbare sofa. The dark swallowed him whole. No nightbirds called. They never did.

The art of doing farm chores with a hangover is as old as farming itself. Wherever a man has put plough to soil and raised plants there has been a still and a song to make the hard work go down easy; it’s the morning after that’s the hard part. 

A cry goes up - a man’s cry, somewhere in the hills. Francis thinks he must be dreaming, or that it must be some heartbroken hallucination. His Thomas calls out for him, somewhere in the grey mists. There he’ll meet his lost love, his beautiful blue-eyed dead lover. They will kiss -

Fuck it all, it’s a real person. A noise too ugly to be made by a ghost and especially the ghost of his Thomas. A wordless scream, something that comes from deep in the chest. Wild with panic.   
Perhaps someone else came back drunk; took a chance going through his farm. Bad luck for them. He searches the hills and then, finally, up to the North Field. 

It’s not a drunk, it’s a madman. Red-haired, blue eyed, wearing nothing but a pair of torn blue shorts. He’s got his leg - somehow- trapped in a coil of barbed wire that must have been there since before his father’s time. He stares at Francis, shivering, making a whining noise deep in his throat. Blood smears his leg; apart from that he’s as pale as porcelain. 

“What’s your name?”

That odd noise again and the man opens his mouth to reveal a lack of tongue. Francis fights the urge to retch. They stare at each other for a moment; Francis, sick and sour, and the young madman weeping soundlessly. 

“Easy now,” Francis says, as low and soft as he can manage, and begins to unwrap the wire from the young man’s leg.


	2. He struck so cheap

It’s a struggle to get the strange, mute man back to his house; bare feet slip over wet grass and hard rock. Francis ends up carrying him, like a strange bride, over the threshold of his house and deposits him on the sofa. 

The young man begins to shiver; Francis switches the ancient radiator on and finds blankets and offers tea, which the young man swallows, face full of gratitude. The wounds on his leg don’t look too bad - little puncture marks, none of them deep or bleeding very much. There’s some dettol in the kitchen drawer so that goes on the leg and the scratches on his feet. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”

Blue eyes - icier than Thomas’s - meet his. A half smile. Then the young man shrugs and burrows under the blankets, rolling on his side, his back to Francis. There is a pause as Francis waits for a response and then - stupid bastard - he finds his phone and calls Solomon, the local copper. 

“Got reports of any runaways, Sol?”

“What?” Solomon sounds groggy. 

“Found one out on the farm. Red head. Mid twenties. Running around in his pants.”

“Jesus,” Sol says. “No reports but how the fuck did he get all the way out there?”

“No idea.”

“Have you asked?”

“He hasn’t got a tongue.”

“Fuck me,” Sol says. “That’s different. I’ll ring around, see if any of the looney bins are missing anyone.”

The young man turns back to him and stares up with sleepy eyes. 

“Cheers.”

“Want me to come round?”

“If you’ve got a moment.”

“I’m a busy man,” Sol says. “What with all the sheep heists and murders. But just this once.”

Francis chuckles and hangs up. 

There’s a paper pad and pen by the phone; on it is scribbled Sophia’s last known (to him, anyway) phone number. He brings it over and prods the young man in the shoulder. He rolls over, blinking. 

“Maybe you could write down your name?” Francis offers him the pad. He takes it, after a moment, and writes, in strange, blocky capitals:

EVANDRUS.

“And I thought Francis was bad,” Francis says. The young man raises an eyebrow and rolls back over. Francis finds himself staring at that well-muscled back again. He fights the urge to stroke it. 

Sol calls back: he won’t be able to make it until tomorrow. Sheep thefts must be bad around this parts. 

“Don’t get yourself murdered in the meantime.”

He hangs up. Evandrus - really? - is already deeply asleep. Some strange impulse draws Francis over to the sofa, where he brushes a lock of hair - just like he did with Thomas, that last time - to take a closer look. High cheekbones. Neatly trimmed beard. Something strange and foxlike in him, even sleeping. 

Upstairs, to his sour-smelling bed. Same bed that his parents conceived his dead siblings in, although he did buy a new mattress. The linen was a present from Sophia, circa second proposal. He should probably wash it. 

The valium is also circa second proposal, a gift from Henry Collins, who had worked on the farm just before Thomas. Washed down with whiskey it makes for a dreamless, dark and entirely unrefreshing sleep.

 

There’s a bang at the door. Morning light struggles through his always-closed curtains, now greasy with mildew. 

“Frank?” Tom’s familiar growling half-shout. “I know you’re in there, you bastard.”

“Coming-” Francis is still dressed, so it’s quick work to get to the door. Tom stares at him, then the figure on the sofa. “This is -uh - Evan.”

The newly christened Evan waves a languorous hand in their direction. Tom raises his eyebrows. 

“He got into an accident in the North Field,” Francis says, knowing how weak the excuse sounds, “He’s staying here until Tozer can get around.”

“Yeah. I heard.” Tom says. Everyone hears everything in realtime; farm town twitter. He looks at Evan, frowning. “Will everything be alright?”

Meaning, in his way, will you be alright? Francis sighs.

“Got himself caught in some barbed wire. He’s not doing anything in a hurry. Cup of tea?”

“Nah. Esther’s expecting me at church in half an hour. My turn to do the reading.”

“Right. See you, then.”

Tom laughs.

“At least thank me for returning the car, you grumpy shit.”

“Thank you,” Francis rolls his eyes.

“Enjoy your morning. Sol says he’ll be around after church.” Another look at Evan. “Enjoy your morning.”

Evan raises his eyebrows and pushes the blankets back. Francis finds himself staring at that lean, pale body - then, realising that he is staring, and Evan is staring back, he turns away. It’s not like how it was with Thomas; Thomas wanted to be here, wanted to be with him, and was taken away. This stranger appeared from nowhere, was trapped, and soon will be free to go. Sol will take him away and that will be the last of it - except it won’t be. More rumours. Francis Crozier is abducting young men, doing god knows what -

Evan taps him on the shoulder. He’s shivering in the cold. 

“Fine,” Francis says, “Fine.” 

He goes upstairs to find clothes. Thomas left some behind, which he’s been meaning to take to the charity shop, but - no. He can’t dress this stranger in Thomas’s clothes. Instead he finds some of his own, which will hang off Evan’s slight frame, but at least he’ll be dressed. That tempting, smooth skin will be covered. When the young man goes away he’ll leave the smell of him on those clothes, and maybe Francis will have a lonely wank with the shirt pressed close to his nose, but that will be the end of it.

There’s nothing about this to trouble his conscience. Nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

A silent man makes good company. Even better; one who doesn’t seem to mind the looks that Francis can no longer be bothered to disguise. Evan seems to luxuriate in them; he reminds Francis of a contented cat, curled up in his too-big clothes under the blankets, staring into the fire. 

“I hope you won’t go feral on me,” Francis says. Evan looks at him under his lashes and smiles. There’s a little too much teeth in that for his comfort. Still. Another person in the house fills him with a strange contentment. Eventually he’ll leave, of course, they all do, but Francis finds himself enjoying the moment. He remembers how Thomas tended to him, when Francis had slipped and wrenched his ankle; now he practises his kindness on Evan, hoping that he’ll learn how to be better at it. 

If only he could freeze this morning in time. Relive this on a loop. Francis Crozier, keeper of the lost. He’s done everything right, for once. Mastered his desires to pull this lovely, lost young man to his bed. From the looks Evan has been giving him it’d probably be an easy thing. Even with the missing tongue -

Goddamnit, always in the middle of his reverie. Someone is rattling the door in its frame. 

Sol, of course.

“Cup of tea?”

He’s clearly hungover. Not that Francis judges him on that. He’s still drowsy from the xanax and the whiskey. But not so fucked that he can’t recognise the cast of his face as he looks Evan over; a barely hidden longing.

There are a few in every village. You meet out the back of the pub or in a shed somewhere and it’s nothing like Brokeback Mountain because you don’t fall in love. Notable exception being their local bookshop owner cum postmaster who took one look at one of the fresh-faced backpackers and decided that he’d rather be happy than popular and so sold up and left. Twenty years’ his junior, they said at the pub, and John Bridgens would be back once the city pretty boy decided he’d had enough. That had been three years ago. News had drifted back that they’d gotten married. Reverend Irving’s homily had been a real blazer after he’d found that out.

“Has he talked much?” Sol asks.

Sol might be as outcast as he, simply for the reason that he wasn’t a Thomas, John or Henry. 

“Jesus Christ, he’s got no tongue.”

Sol gives him a look. 

“How about a pencil and paper?

 

“He’s written down his name but not much else.”

Evan looks between them both, clearly amused. Sol suddenly seems to remember that he’s got an official duty to do and sits down.

“I’m PC Solomon Tozer,” he says, with a softness that Francis has never heard before. “I’m here to help you get home. And a cuppa would be great. Thanks.”

Francis goes into the kitchen, listening to Sol’s gentle questioning. His back’s to the door and he wonders if Sol’s getting any response to his questions. The kettle boils. Tea steeps. Sol’s voice drops lower and lower and the back of Francis’s neck itches. Evan must be hungry by now and he’s presented with the problem of feeding someone with no tongue. Porridge it is. Sol can whistle if he’s wanting anything. 

He makes it watery and sweet, and brings out the steaming bowl as Sol is asking Evan where he comes from. Evan stands up, walks barefoot to the door, and opens it. He points to the hills, then to the top field.

“What, did you just appear in the fairy stones?” Sol says, impatient now. “Walked through fairyland to -”

Evan tuts and goes back to the couch. Francis hands him the bowl. Evan ignores the proffered spoon and drinks straight from the bowl. He has to tilt his head back to swallow properly. 

Sol jerks his head and Francis follows him outside. 

“He’s pretty normal,” Sol says. “As far as I can tell. Wasn’t too keen on writing anything down.”

“Right,” Francis says. “So you can’t take him away with you?”

“I suppose he was trespassing. But you’d have to press charges for that. I could take him off your hands,” Sol turns to stare at the hills. “If you’re worried for your safety.”

Francis snorts.

“He seems harmless enough. No escaped lunatics, I take it?”

“Nah.”

“Well, he can stay here, if there’s nowhere else he has to be or wants to go.”

That gets him a distinctly hostile look. 

“Seems a bit strange,” Sol mutters. 

“I could do with the company,” Francis says. “And it’s not forever. Just until I sell the place.”

Why did he say that? Since when was he planning to-? Sol’s look changes from one of hostility to one of disbelief.

“Selling up? Why?”

“Look at it. It’s a fucking shithole. Half of the sheep are good for nothing but dogfood and nothing grows.” And everyone hates me. “The village can turn it into a heritage site, with its stone circle and that fucking white thing on the hills -”

“The fairy stones,” Sol mumbles. His face has gone white. “We call them the fairy stones around here.”

“Whatever they’re called - I’m going to leave before the end of this year. By Spring.”

And go where, Francis? Off to see if Sophia’s still trying to save the world? With what money? Drink himself to death in the city instead of this place - 

The radio in Sol’s car screeches. A burst of static. He answers it, then turns back.

“There’s been a dog attack. Got to go.”

“See you, then,” Francis says. “If I’m not at the pub on Monday you’ll know I’ve been murdered.”

He goes back inside and closes the door behind him. Evan has his head cocked to one side, like a puzzled animal.

“You come from the hills, eh?”

Evan shrugs and continues drinking his porridge. Francis sits next to him. The couch is small enough that their thighs are touching although the blankets make it hard to feel anything through them.

“Tell me then,” Francis says, taking up his own bowl. “What the hell is that white thing on the hillside supposed to be, eh? Looks more like a sheep to me -”

Evan puts his bowl on the floor, grins, and lets out a howl that raises the hair on the back of Francis’s neck. It’s loud enough to be heard outside, even: there’s a crash as Sol drives his car into the gatepost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey it's Harry Goodsir! POV change!

“Call me Harry,” has been a constant refrain since Harry took over Doctor Stanley’s practice. Everyone still insists on calling him “Doctor” though; it feels more like a title than a job description. It’s not even consistent; PC Tozer is simply “Sol” to everyone and even though John Franklin is technically a “Sir” everyone just refers to him -albeit not to his face - as “Franklin.” Possibly to differentiate him from the other Johns, Thomases, and Henrys that fill this place up. On the “titled” front, Reverend Irving is another proud member, both of the district electricians are known as “Sparky” and the cook in the local pub - again, just “The Local” - is simply referred to as “Cook.” Although his last name is Diggle so perhaps this is understandable-

“I can’t breathe,” Silna says. Her voice is crackly, but her laughter is warm and true and cheers him up immediately. “Are you sure you haven’t moved to Summerisle?”

“What? Where?”

“Never mind.” Exasperation. They play through the steps of these conversations as if they were doing a dance. Best friends isn’t really a term that should be used outside of primary school but Harry knows in his heart of hearts that Silna is his. He might be hers, if he’s lucky, but he’s got the nagging idea that she could do better. 

“It’s got its own stone circle,” Harry says. “They call it ‘the fairy stones’ and there’s this weird blob on the hill they say is some prehistoric picture of some sort -”

Silna cackles again.

“If anyone starts singing about the coming of the Spring or growing of the barley you need to get into the car and leave,” she says. “They’ll be planning to put you in a Wicker Man.”

“It’s a bit odd, yes,” Harry says, impatient. “But I’ve always wanted to get out of the city, see a bit more of the world -”

“How long do you have to drive to get a decent latte?” She asks. “Because if it’s less than an hour than I’m calling bullshit.”

“I don’t even drink coffee,” Harry protests, “You know it gives me migraines.”

“Not for you. For me. I might be able to get funding. Post-colonial interrogation of weird white people in Butfuckinghamshire, England.” 

“As a weird person, I take offense.”

“You’ll always be my favourite weird white person. But I’ve got real work to do, out here.”

Here is what keeps them apart; Silna is working with an NGO that deals with Indigenous Rights in Canada. Harry feels ashamed. She is doing real work, important work -

“I know,” he says. “I know.” 

“Never mind,” she says. “It’s only for a few years, right? Then once you’ve finished dealing with Thomas, Harry and John, you can come to Canada and we can be weird lonely people together.”

He asks after her Dad; a nice man, well respected, but much troubled by heart problems. And wary, too; he’d been one of the last generations through Canada’s Residential Schools. Put all of this nonsense into perspective.

They don’t say that they love each other, not ever. Because they don’t, not like that. And that’s fine. They understand each other, truly, which is rare even among romantic couples. 

Dark’s closing in. He hangs up the phone, locks up the surgery for the night, and heads down to “The Local” as it’s a few doors down from him. Silna had suggested it as a way to meet new people. Or, as it turns out, mostly old people, and PC Tozer. They are gathered in a tight circle around the bar.

“Francis has always been a bit odd,” Thomas-the-landlord says, “But he’s had a hard time of it. He’s allowed some oddness.”

No matter what the subject, Harry always feels like he’s eavesdropping. 

“Doctor! So good to see you.”

The Reverend is here too, which is odd, but he is drinking orange juice, so perhaps that’s alright.

“I just came in for a cider,” Harry says. “But if everyone’s busy -”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thomas-the-landlord says. “Everyone’s just having a gossip. About the new lad up at Francis’s place.”

PC Tozer is scowling. 

“It’s weird, that’s what that is.”

“Is it?” Thomas-the-landlord says, mildly. “Francis could use any help he can get. Hard to coax a living out of that spiteful piece of earth.”

“Not for much longer,” PC Tozer says. “He says he’s selling the place.”

The silence is immediate and lasts longer than mere shock; Harry could swear they were looking at each other with expressions of terror. 

“Oh, he’ll forget about it come tomorrow,” Thomas-the-Landlord says. “You know how he is.”

No, Harry thinks, I don’t. I could live here for fifty years and know them like I’d only just moved in. 

The rest of the conversation nominally includes him; holding him at arms’ length, but as he is part of the vital village machinery, no one is so rude to actively exclude him. Not the way they do Francis Crozier, whose main crimes seem to be an Irish accent, a bad temper and a drinking problem. Even though he’s lived here most of his life. Even though the thought of him moving away seems to terrify them. 

Village life is as strange as one of Silna’s films; and perhaps dangerous, in its own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silna/Harry brotp


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some BITCHY FITZJAMES POV

Francis hasn’t been to the pub in days. Everyone is getting worried; James is deputised to see what is keeping him at home, since he’s unlikely to welcome Sol or even Tom, who doesn’t want it to seem like he’s fussing. Of course (they decided) it’s something to do with this Evan. Sol spent a suspiciously long time describing him to the rest of the pub and James can see the temptation. Red hair, ice blue eyes, a way of smiling that promises all sorts of secrets and delights. Sol didn’t put it that way but he might as well have done. James is good at reading between the lines, and those lines in particular.

Who’s using who? No one can decide. But the animal attacks are increasing so that’s not what’s on everyone’s mind. Poor Francis. It suited everyone better when he was so isolated. There was some trouble when poor Thomas Jopson was around but that resolved itself. Hopefully it wasn’t someone else resolving the issue for them; Thomas was an innocent in all of this. So is Francis, arguably, but that is the point of the exercise. Better one than all of them. Better Francis than him. 

So: off to the farm with an apology that he doesn’t mean. It’ll wound his pride but it’s for the greater good. 

It is every bit the shit hole everyone says it is. The hedges and fences are in complete disrepair; the roads are potholed. The dilapidated house sits at the center of a small courtyard, surrounded by overgrown brambles and a few stunted trees. There are bottles and rubbish poking out from under the tangle. Behind the house sits the famous hill; beyond that, the field and the fairy stones.

What he could do with this land! James would clear the whole thing out, replace the no-doubt scabby sheep with a heritage breed. The place had potential. But Francis had let it go to rack and ruin. Perhaps he sensed his time spent in this place wouldn’t be very long - although almost thirty years would be long enough - but the time he had was clearly ill spent. Imagine proposing to the same women three times! The word “pathetic” keeps floating across his mind but Franklin has indicated that a gentler approach would work. 

James parks his car next to Francis’s rust-bucket. The front door is locked and no one answers his knock; perhaps Francis is busy with farm chores. But movement catches his eye; he goes around to the back door and is astonished to see that famous, lovely Evan urinating against a tree. He doesn’t show a trace of impunction or inclination to stop; in fact, he meets James’s eye and grins. 

“Good morning,” James says, stiffly. “Is Francis about?”

Evan finishes, zips himself up, wipes his hands on his jeans and points to the hills.

“Right. Can I come in?”

Evan shrugs. He goes back into the house; James follows. 

Christ, this place is a tip. Dirty dishes, grimy floor, and the smell of mildew and sour milk strong in the air. Evan goes to the living room; pauses, sits down in a kitchen chair, and takes his boots off. He’s wearing several pairs of thick socks. Not his boots, clearly. Then he walks to the living room without so much as a backwards glance. 

“Right then,” James mutters, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Clearly no use asking when Francis will be back. He’ll stay for fifteen minutes and then -

“Hello, James.”

“Jesus Christ,” James says, practically jumping out of his skin. It’s like he’d summoned Francis by just thinking about him.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Francis says. “Make yourself at home. We’re a friendly bunch here. Doors never locked. You’ll find that once you stay here long enough.”

He always knows what to say to get James’s hackles up. This is a bad start.

“Evan let me in.”

“Or did he just not close the door?” Francis has this way of raising his eyebrows that conveys disbelief and mockery.

“I don’t know his habits. I just assumed he was letting me in.”

“Not the easiest house guest I’ve ever had. Keeps on pissing outside. Can only assume he shits out there too. Happy enough to take baths, though.”

“Is he - well. Mentally capable?”

“Apart from shitting outside? Yeah. Lazy bugger though. Spends all day on the sofa. He’s going to get a shock when I start making him work for his room and board.”

They are getting off-topic. 

“I thought you were selling the place,” James says. 

“That got around quickly. Needs a bit of tidying up though.”  
“Why not get people from the village to help? Tom Hartnell could use the…”

 

“Distraction? Christ, the grass isn’t even growing over David and you’re already volunteering him for work.” Francis’s eyes narrow. “What’s this all about, James?”

“People are worried,” James says, as calmly as he can manage. “You haven’t been out since-”

“Evan came. Well. I like company that knows when to shut up. And God knows I have enough trouble keeping on workers as it is, what with all the old women at the pub telling the backpackers the place is haunted.”

“They’re just worried,” James repeats. “This Evan-”

“-is just fine here. He can leave any time he wants. Go back to wherever he came from.” Francis leans forward. There’s the sharp smell of whiskey. “I think he’s a member of the aos sí. Or if I’m very unlucky, an leannán sídhe, although that lot are usually lovely women.”

“What?” James is distinctly unsettled now. It’s like Francis knows, like he’s on the edge of understanding. And that would be dangerous. 

“A member of the fair folk, - I have the fairy stones in my field, after all. I suppose when I leave you’ll all be turning them into a tourist attraction.”

James thinks on the stones; they’ve been described as ugly, dark, crumbling boulders, rather than something elegant and ordered like Stonehenge. 

“Well, I won’t be minding that,” Francis says. “As long as you leave poor Neptune alone.”

James just stares at him.

“My dog. I buried him up there. My poor, good old lad. Didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“Anyway -” he might as well ask, bluntly, since Francis has managed to destroy any attempts at goodwill. “How long will you be staying?”

“Might as well stay through to Spring,” Francis says. “No use trying to sell the place before then.”

“You’ll be able to have one last Christmas in the village,” James murmurs, keeping his voice low to keep the relief out of it.

“I’ll miss Reverend’s sermons, for sure,” Francis laughs. “I’m sure he can work his Christmas story to the dirtiness of the modern age. Not taking Evan though. I think he’s allergic to holy water.”

A cough behind him. James starts again. Evan’s behind him, smirking. God, what does Tozer see in him? There’s something feral in his manner; some dark, coiled energy like a weasel or a stoat. Hunger, too. Well. This looks like a fit place for vermin.

“I don’t think fairies piss,” James retorts, feeling the back of his neck flush hot. Seeing them together, seeing their ease with each other, makes his blood boil. He’d tried with Francis, he really had. And in the beginning, he’d wanted them to be friends. No point now, though. And absolutely no inclination. 

“Don’t let us keep you, James. Pass my love on to the old biddies at the pub. You’ll have a new story to tell them, now.”

“Fine,” James says. “Fine.”

He’s got what he needs and Francis will get what he deserves. Evan’s a minor fly in the ointment but Tozer can see to him. 

“Shut the door behind you.” 

James slams it, feeling ashamed and stupid as he does so. Franklin tells him that Francis deserves their kindness; he is about to make a very great sacrifice for the rest of them, after all. But the man practically repels any attempt at it. No wonder Sophia turned him down. Imagine living in this squalid dump. 

His tires squeal as he drives away. Slows down, though, as he passes the hill -

Fuck. Fuck. 

The hill has no marks on it at all. The large white stain, that everyone feared and worshiped was gone. Grass was growing where it should be, grass the same length as all around it. 

Like it had never been there at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORE WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER
> 
> ALSO MENTIONED ANIMAL DEATHS

More dog attacks; more blame. Who’s dog is it? Harry suspects they would have blamed Francis Crozier’s dog were it not six months dead. It was bad enough when it was just sheep; poor little soggy bundles of gore and fleece. Now cats are going missing. Or that’s what the children are told; Mog and Button and Paws are more likely red smears at the bottom of the garden. John Morfin (migraines) mournfully informed Harry that his beloved mutt Jimbo went out for a piss in the middle of the night and never came back. 

Now the village has closed in on itself. Harry, still a vital cog, is kept enough in the loop that he can talk about it in casual conversation but not enough that he actually knows what’s going on. The apparently-prehistoric beast on the hill has vanished and people seem to think the two things are connected. You could make a truly terrifying triptych with the young man turning up at Crozier’s - George Hodgson (IBS) - claims that James Fitzjames ( ailment unknown) says that Francis Crozier (probable depressive illness) says that his young man is some sort of fairy (Psychotic break?). 

He hadn’t realised he was referring to people by their illnesses until Silna, giggling, pointed it out and wondered if it was a breach of client confidentiality. He told her that he diagnosed her with being a cheeky cow and she told him that she hoped he’d end up in the Wicker Man. He apologised for calling her a cheeky cow, feeling slightly ashamed. She suggested, perhaps more mildly than he deserved, that perhaps the _cunt_ ry was rubbing off on him. Speaking of rubbing off, how was he finding dating? Surely, with something new to add to the no-doubt shallow gene pool, he’d be swarming with ladies, or is he still married to his work?

“Please respect my meaningful relationship with Des Voeux’s recurring ingrown toenails.”

Silna made a gagging sound and said she had to check on her Dad. His heart broke a little when she said that; when he visited Canada last, he’d heard about his symptoms and suggested that he visit a doctor. Silna had given him a look. He has, she’d said. They just said it was old age and a bad diet. He should have had ten more years, easily. 

Silna was the only woman he spoke to with any regularity; the women here seemed untroubled by the afflictions which seemed to plague their husbands and fathers. There were no menstrual problems, no utis, nothing. Not that he’d wish either of those things on anybody but he did find a little eerie. It’s like they were there, but not - extras in a film, perhaps. And he was sure that this wasn’t a sexist thing because the children were exactly the same way. He watches them from his window - his flat is over the surgery - and garish green parka that Edward Little (eczema) always wears and the bright blue of Tozer’s uniform (Gonorrhea, oddly) and even the stylish charcoal of Franklin’s winter coat. But everyone else seems...grey. Muted. More like moving mannequins than people. 

Perhaps Mrs. Franklin had enough personality for all of them. She never deigned to come down to the village proper except for Sunday service but she had no trouble in commenting on the sermon or how clean the church was. And there was the absent Sophia, beloved of Crozier, doing something worthy in Asia.

He’d asked Franklin where exactly in Asia Sophia was and Franklin (arthritis) looked at him like he didn’t understand the question.

It was a face he was growing used to; even polite enquiries were met with apparent bafflement. He’d asked for an address for Doctor Stanley, for example, since some of the medical records were either missing or, worryingly, charred around the edges. And there was a half-finished manuscript he’d found in his flat discussing the history of the area which he was sure the owner must be missing -

No, no. That was met with outright hostility when he tried to discuss it. Which was a pity, since the manuscript was well written and utterly fascinating. The village had been the site of a pagan temple that the Romans had been interested in enough to build a road to but not interested enough to defend; apparently it was rubble by the time the nearest medieval chronicler had gotten around to writing about it. There were some mentions of human sacrifice but the writer had put that down to common Roman slurs about druids. 

There had been surprisingly little about the beast on the hill; local legend had it as a wolf, although if it was pre-Roman then it was a little mysterious since Pagan religions had not been especially noted for their interest in the animal, although it had a special place in Roman myth (obviously) and often, in the Provinces of the Empire, was used to display an allegiance with Rome…

Harry was broken out of his reverie but a sudden chill. It was unseasonal, this cold. Every so often wintery blasts would work their way through the windows and under the doors. There was a little radiator that struggled to keep his living room warm. He had to rely on three duvets in his bedroom. He wondered how Doctor Stanley coped; apparently the man had a family. 

It was still light enough outside to see the street. Harry had this creeping guilt when he looked down at the street, like he was gazing through a crack in a door at private matters. But despite everything, this was going to be his home. He’d belong here one day. 

Someone was staggering down the street. The light wasn’t such that he could make out any details - well, fuck. Time to be a good village doctor and check in on the drunk, even if was just quickly. It would also be a good time to check if his hypothesis about the flat being colder than outside was correct. 

He hurried down the stairs, ignoring his coat. He’d only make a quick check and the person wasn’t that far away -

How had he missed all the blood, even in the half-light? He slipped in it as he stepped out of his front door, legs sliding out under him for a brief moment. The figure - now he was close enough to see - was Graeme, Graeme who, what is wrong with Graeme -

The man turns and falls into his arms, not yet dead but already a dead weight. There are three long gashes in his torso, exposing bone and flesh. The lowest has caught him right across the stomach; his intestines are visible. Blood pools beneath them both as they sink to the ground, like lovers into bed. 

In that moment Harry has to choose whether to run for his phone or stay; whether he should hope that these wounds are survivable or understand that they are not and there is nothing to be done but hold this young man who had smiled at him so warmly at their introduction, hold him tight and keep him safe and lie about his chances of survival.

It doesn’t take long. But each gap between pained breaths feels like an eternity. He kneels there, in that pool of blood, feeling the icy wind bite at his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My laptop is dying, so this may be on hiatus for a while :/

He has walked these hills for a very long time. Long enough that he’s seen time itself change; from the turning of the seasons into the distance between dawn and dusk. Then those days are counted and at a certain point they have become weeks and then expanded into years, named years. Now time has collapsed in on itself, become smaller: he watches the ticking device in the room - the living room, his host calls it - and now everything is measured in tiny moments, longer than breaths and blinks but still disconcertingly short. 

The roads of Rome were supposed to last forever. This one hasn’t. In his fog-clouded walk through the centuries (was it the Christians who invented them?) he was dimly aware that the road was replaced by a different one, coming from a different direction. It snakes into this little village around hills and past ditches whereas the Roman construction was straight and steady. 

The farms haven’t changed.Some of those are old. Older than him, even. Not that means much. What’s time to him? Something that moves around him, leaving him untouched.

The curly-haired, thin man who brought him to this place used to describe him, since mirrors were rare and reflections often lied. 

“You have red hair, Evandrus.” The name was stolen from a man who taught him how to write it. “And blue eyes, like a cold winter sky. And your skin is as white as marble.”

“What’s marble?”

“A stone. They use it to build temples in Rome. So I hear.”

It’s strange that of all the things that have stayed with him, of all the names he’s used, Evandrus is the one he remembers. His host has renamed him as Evan, perhaps because Evandrus sounds strange in this time. Never mind. In a couple of centuries he’ll probably have a new name that will mean something different to someone else. 

This house is much better than any other he has ever stayed in; warm and dry, without animals at the door and rats in the walls. Plenty of food, fresh water, a bed that looks even better than the ones he’s stayed in while making his home with some other poor fool. It is disconcerting that this man hasn’t pulled him into his bed yet. No matter the years. the cost of this comfort and this company has remained the same. 

But the man, despite his longing looks, has barely touched him. He’s almost offended by it. Perhaps the man fears the judgement of the people who seem to always be visiting. The broad man, curly-haired, who stared at him like a starving man stares at roasting meat. Then another who seemed to come simply to quarrel. They are unsettled by his presence. Not entirely unfairly; the loss of a tongue disconcerts in any age. 

Language changes; he can discern meaning well enough, if not the exact words. He’s clever enough to hide his confusion when they mention things he can’t understand. He is disconcerted, too: why has he come to this place? Why now? Why to this man in particular?

Not quite truth, he thinks, as he pisses against a tree. I was called here, by someone, and my presence demands a sacrifice. Of blood and life. That was freely given and so I came. Perhaps the dark-haired man misunderstood that and wasn’t sure of what I could actually do but that’s hardly my fault. It’s not like I can tell anyone. Besides, he’s not even sure what his purpose is in this; the beast awakening again. He has a role to play in all of this but he isn’t sure what that is. No matter: he will make his own if he cannot remember. 

That he remembers; the knife and the blood in his mouth and the agony of the cutting. The curly-haired man lay dying, his blood seeping into the earth. The rough hands holding him down on wet grass. The sky above, grey and threatening rain. He was stretching out for his lover’s hand.The coldness seeping through him, choking him, dragging him down into a nothingness and fog. He finishes pissing, wipes his hands, and turns. He is that cold again. He makes a choice.

Inside the man is on the soft seat, staring at nothing, his once warm drink going cold in the vessel next to him. The cold is inside even in this warm room. It creeps from his feet and up through him, until it is in his head, this unbearable cold. So he touches the man on the shoulder, breathes, and climbs into his lap. The man stiffens, although not in the way he expects. This is a man unused to touch. 

Tears can be their own form of seduction and the man reacts at last, wrapping him in arms that are held rigid but holding him nonetheless. He pushes his face into the man’s neck, soaking his skin with tears. Of course this is a seduction. Not something he needs. The man strokes his hair and shushes him, as if he were a child. If he cannot be this man’s lover than perhaps he can be the son he never had - no, no, there it is. What he’s feeling against his thigh is not fatherly. Lover, then. There is both a horrible pain and a wicked grin inside him. A definite position in this man’s life can be arranged. 

He feels a strange tenderness in his heart, something that he has not felt since whathisname, the man he brought him to this place and was the cause of his ruin. They are so alike. Always strangers. Incomers from a distant land. Forever on the outside. He can teach this man that being unknown is an advantage; they never see the knife coming if they think you incapable of wielding it. That was a lesson he learned the first time around. 

The beast on the hill has vanished. 

They will need knives.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are sexy times in this one, friends. So don't read this at work.

Francis goes to the funeral but not the wake. Too young, they’ll say. Such a promising life, tragically cut short. The cliches rankle. And he knows Tom will be generous with the drink and he’s trying to cut back. Franklin will be there, and James, and all of the rest of them. There will be more questions and more looks and he is so fucking tired of it all. That everyone’s off drinking themselves under the table means that the churchyard is empty. A rare chance to see his brothers and sisters. 

Reverend Irving had given a touching service. He does have a surprisingly tender side and all the young men of that generation share a close bond. Sad to see it broken; must be hard to be young and think you’ll share years together. Young people don’t just die here; there hasn’t been any comment on the official cause, so Francis suspects suicide. Graeme was always a lively young man with an open, smiling face. But it can be hard to tell these things.

Jesus. That wind. No wonder Evan’s always cold. It’s been bad in the past few days; Francis fears for his sad-eyed, scabby sheep. He passes by Graeme’s freshly-dug grave, covered in flowers. In a few days they’ll blow away or rot and be cleared away by Mason.

Francis likes Mason. He’s a little...impaired, but is decent enough and tries his best. There was some suggestion that he be taken into care once he grew too strong for his poor mother to deal with but the village pulled together to make sure he could stay. Now he does odd jobs: dig graves, mow the village green and clean up after big village events. Everyone puts a bit in so he can buy his comic books and sausages. And he’s around at a different house for a roast every Sunday. There might be some argument that the people here could be decent. 

Francis likes him even though he adamantly refuses to clear out the little area where his brothers and sisters are; little blocks of marble, the size of a postcard, all laid out in neat little rows. His father is buried in the Catholic graveyard, some miles away. His mother wanted her ashes scattered across the hills. His father objected to that, although he died first so didn’t get much of a say in the end.

Mason and Reverend Irving had a row about that; or rather, the good and holy Reverend shouted at the man, six foot tall and trying not cry, about superstition and stupidity. Francis had intervened, said he would do it, and then never did. Mary loved the long grass and the wildflowers. Let her lay among them now; the others were too young to know but he thought it was the best thing for them. It made the graveyard look a little untidy and he suspected there would be a Conversation about that couched in concern.

He missed the last seven or so; still in Ireland, with his grandmother. The Troubles hadn’t really kicked off, not yet, but he came home and missed the worst of it. He was lucky for that. No one ever asked him about it, though. The village was its own little ship, sailing along to who knows where, knowing only the weather and the strange little world contained within. 

No, he won’t go to the wake tonight. He’ll toast to Graeme in the warmth of his own house. He doesn’t believe in an afterlife but he hopes Graeme’s in heaven, smiling down on them. And his little brothers and sisters, and his mother and father, and even Neptune. Graeme liked Neptune. In his old age Neptune was wont to wander; once Graeme brought him back and Francis can love him for that. 

Death, death, so much, all the time. It stalked him but never touched him. His Thomas lay dead, quiet, still as rocks. Time stood still for that. Or it may have been the fog that rolled in from nowhere, covering everything in white mist. He stood there for an age before Neptune’s bark brought him back; lovely, sweet, Neptune, his good boy, whose barks and howls kept the beasts of loneliness and grief at bay.

Perhaps he could get Evan to howl again. It wasn’t like he asked anything of this lovely stranger who sat in his house and ate his food. Evan helped when he felt like it. He could be industrious if the task interested him. For instance, making tea seemed to fascinate him, as did washing dishes. Maybe his jokes to James were right; maybe Evan was some strange fae creature, sent out of the stones. Maybe he’d lost his fox-skin somewhere, and when he found it he’d slip away into the night, leaving Francis alone. 

It’s a long walk home and fuck, so cold, but Evan has mastered the art of the radiator and the trick of pouring whiskey, enough to chase the worst of his foul moods away but not enough that he blacks out. It’s a fine line. Evan is solicitous of his person and although Francis senses some strange motive behind it he enjoys being looked after. 

But the radiator isn’t on when he gets home and house is dark. The wind is picking up. He has to force the door shut. Carefully, because Evan may be asleep, he takes off his outer layers and goes up the stairs, avoiding the steps that creak. 

Evan’s door is open and his body practically glows in the moonlight. His hand is working his cock. Francis gapes at the sight; his own prick hardens, almost immediately. Evan’s head is turned away, eyes closed, and Francis knows that this is not for him, not a seduction. But he steps forward anyway and Evan’s eyes snap open. 

In the half-light Francis can see his alarmed expression but he makes no move to cover himself. Francis is weak, he knows he is weak, and his weakness drives him into the arms of this catastrophe. Or rather: he runs his palm up Evan’s calf, where the sharp kisses of the barbed wire are starting to heal. Evan flinches but does not pull away and he doesn’t go soft, either.

Instead he smiles and parts his legs; Francis, desiring nothing more than to be close to some living, breathing thing, crawls between them. He feels Evan jerk as he puts his mouth on his cock. Jesus christ, no fae creature this, but a man, a man of flesh and blood, who bucks wildly as he begins to suck. 

Francis only has the vaguest idea of how this act is performed but Evan likes it well enough, judging from the gasps and moans. The wind is picking up; a veritable storm comes and shakes the fragile, ancient bones of the house. But Evan is spending into his mouth and Francis wants- what does he want?

Evan is stronger than he looks and drags Francis on top of him; eyes wet, red lips parted, his mouth dark and empty. It almost hurts Francis to look at him. But look he does and when he sees those blue eyes he knows in his heart that this man is an imposter, a stranger, something wild and dangerous. In this moment he has caught his Evan off guard. But then Evan takes his cock in hand and then Francis thinks of nothing at all. 

After they are done Francis puts his hand on Evan’s heart; it beats and he is satisfied. He kisses the tears away, kisses Evan’s neck and chest. Then he turns Evan onto his side and wraps his arms around him; holding him close and holding him tight. Try turning into a fox now, he thinks, as sleep takes him. I’ve got you. And I will lock your pelt into a box and throw away the key. You will not go to Africa or to the grave. You will stay here, with me, until I decide to let you go.

It is still dark when he hears the phone ring; he steals a blanket off the bed and goes downstairs.

It’s James. His voice is frantic. 

“Francis. Francis. You must come. There’s been...an attack. Something’s happened.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

“No. No. What are you talking about? People are dead, Francis. And we can’t find John.”


	9. Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INTERLUDE CHAPTER

“What you are planning to do to Francis is revolting.”

“It is utterly necessary, my dear. We’ve talked about this.”

“Still. Still. I can’t believe it’s been a century and no one has found a better way-”

“.I know it seems barbaric and terribly unfair but we had no luck with any of the others. It should have been that young man from the city but John Bridgens decided he was above the law.”

“The law Uncle decided.”

“The law your great-grandfather decided. And it’s for the good of us all.”

“I wish I’d had more time with him. It might have made things easier.”

“Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Do you wish you’d had more time because you actually love him, or is it out of pity?”

*

“You should publish this. It’s very good.”

“I showed it to exactly one other person. Then we were down one village doctor and his wife and children were homeless. Lord knows what would happen if I made it public knowledge.”

“You could publish it as a novel.”

“It’s all a bit Wicker Man, isn’t it? Sometimes I don’t think you believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you. And I’m glad you got me out. I don’t fancy being fed to some ancient wolf-beast thing.”

“That particular part of the ritual is only about a century old. I’ve no idea what started it. It’s certainly not common practice among other pre-Roman groups and there’s no sudden inexplicable deaths among the parish records as far as I can tell.”

“I suppose they’d lie about that, wouldn’t they?”

“Could be. But if they only use outsiders, well - they wouldn’t need to record anything.”

*

“I do appreciate everything you’re doing, Tozer.”

“It’s for the village, Mr. Franklin.”

“Of course, of course. But it’s important to let people know that they are valued.”

“Thank you, Mr. Franklin.”

“Now. James will pick up Francis and Tom will see that he’s...docile. I’ll keep out of sight until the appointed hour. The witching hour, if you will.”

“Right.”

“And remember to kill the boy. He’s been a bit of a spanner in the works. And we’re running out of time.”


	10. Chapter 10

Solomon watches James’s car drive away, hidden by the hedge. He’s glad Crozier’s farm is such a mess. Will make things easier - not just in getting to the house, but hiding the body, afterwards. He fucked up badly with Crozier’s last pretty nobody. Luckily Franklin had been forgiving and Stanley - rest in peace - had managed to tidy up any details for the inquest.

Stanley - the smell of smoke and charred meat hangs on that name like a phantom. Stanley had ended any possibility that his son would inherit his position; of course, the man had been remiss and only had daughters.Bringing the doctor from the outside had been a risk but they couldn’t do well without one. Sol thinks back to his own forebears; grandfather and great-grandfather, all dedicated to the security and safety of their home. To keeping the beast at bay. 

Crozier could never have been one of them, no matter how long he’d lived there. His great-grandfather had been starving in Ireland while his great-grandfather had been freezing on the ice, trying to save their home. All he had to tie him here were his dead brothers and sisters; proof enough that this land had rejected his family.

James Fitzjames - a long lost scion of this place that Franklin had worked hard to find - was the next inheritor of this shitty little farm. He had great plans for the place. He was handsome, in his way, and lonely; Sol would wait a little while until he told him that he’d need to go to the good doctor to have a check up. A city man bringing city diseases. Still not as bad as Crozier, though. His presence was a splinter that was stuck fast, festering.

Sol creeps towards the house; there’s a single light in the bedroom window. It’ll be hard to get the red-head out without creating a mess but then there must be a bath up there and drowning’s not the worst way to go. Thomas Jopson bled out into the mud. Sol was stronger than Thomas Jopson and stronger than this one. It would be easy.

Except not. It was those blue eyes, damn it. And the half-smile. The indifference. It was for the good of all but not at all good for him. Perhaps he could subdue this one, take him back to Sol’s place, and they could have a good time before it all had to end. Sol saw how the other man had looked at him; there was no way that Crozier was giving it to him right. 

A sudden movement jolted him out of his reverie; there was the object of his thoughts (and desires) standing in front of him. Naked; Sol took a good and long look before he darted off into the undergrowth. Never mind. Sol was wearing heavy boots and dark clothing. It would be easy-

But the other man left no tracks. No broken branches. Once they both went into the trees it was like he had vanished into thin air. Sol curses. Fuck him for some fairy creature or at least a  
clever runaway. Feral like a fox or a stoat. Leave one of those running around and all your livestock would suffer. 

As clean as that. Trapping vermin. Nothing more than that. He had to keep his mind on the hunt. No good time with this one. He’d make it quick.   
Up the hill, through the brambles and weeds and gnarled, wind-scarred trees. Every branch scratched his face; every rock tried to trip him up. And it began to rain; coming down from what was a golden, peaceful Autumn dusk that turned to a dark, concrete sky with a howling gale. The cold cuts right through him despite his winter clothes.

He stumbles on; half blinded from the rain, face scratched, disorientated. Bursts of laughter taunt him from the trees. Can you laugh with no tongue? He’s all turned around and starting to panic. But he pauses; puts his back flat against a tree and closes his eyes. He’ll wait for this to pass and it will have to be some other place, some other person, less bewitched, perhaps -

A hand is in his and he is being gently lead away. Through the trees; the leaves kiss his face, gently and sweetly. And he is on the hill, by the fairy stones. Beneath them is the hillside where the Beast should be. 

Evan is looking at him, hair plastered flat to his head. He takes Sol’s hand, presses it to his heart. There is a heartbeat there; this is a living, breathing man. A man who can be killed. Sol will wrap his hands around that slim, white throat and choke the life out of him. It will be fine. It will all be fine. Then Evan begins to peel away Sol’s soaked clothes and Sol can think of nothing else.

The fairy stones are smooth; rendered so by years of exposure. Sol lays Evan out on the big flat one - the one they always dared each other to touch, when they were all children - and makes a meal of him. He indulges everything he’s ever wanted to do with another man, with his tongue, with his fingers, cock, arsehole, everything. Evan is eager, responsive - wordless cries echoing out into the night. He’s so beautiful it makes Sol’s chest ache. 

When they are done, finally, it’s night. Sol doesn’t feel cold. He has Evan wrapped in his arms and is kissing the side of his neck. So distracted, he doesn’t even notice the kitchen knife appearing in Evan’s hand. But he does notice the searing pain in his calf. A flash of agony. He tries to scream but Evan has his hand over his mouth.

“Shhhh,” Evan whispers and kisses his forehead. “I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

And he is gone; Sol is alone, cold, aching and afraid. The fog begins to roll in.


	11. An apology and a summary.

Ok, so: I am not, for one reason or another, going to be able to finish this fic in the way that I want to. I’m sorry. But everyone’s been amazing with comments, so I figured I’d do a wrap-up of where the story was going to go after this next chapter.

 

The beast on the hill is obviously analogous to the Tunbaq in The Terror. In the story we discover - through Harry’s research and further conversations with my Immortal Gays Who Are Unkillable, Henry and John, that the tradition of human sacrifice only started after the direct ancestor of Sir John returned to the village from the Arctic. All the characters - bar the ones directly referred to in the narrative - are descendents of the men from that Arctic voyage.

Thing is, they based that all on two misunderstandings: the ancestor of Sir John misunderstood what he saw, and based on his colonialist/racist lense, took it back to the village and applied it to their own “beast.”

The second misunderstanding is the nature of the beast itself. It’s more wolf-like than bear-like (appropriate to the setting) and it just...is. It’s a neutral but existing force in the world, but Sir John’s ancestor - and, of course, all the men descendent and named in the story - think of it as evil and needing to be contained. It isn’t. But the desire to “name” the creature and “name” its motives has driven the tragedies of the story up to this point, because the ‘rational’ mind of both the Victorian and modern settings tries to assign motives and values to a thing which has no human morality. 

This is revealed through a conversation with “Evandrus” - not his real name - who was an ancient Roman conman and the first to be killed by the villagers of that time, not as a sacrifice, but for the crime of trying to control it. So - exactly what Sir John and the others are doing now. He’s survived on but refuses to discuss how or why. I thought this was very Hickey-like; he’s also very connected to the beast itself. I wanted to explore the possibility of what what would happen if Hickey succeeded in becoming aligned to the beast. He’s alive but has as much control over it as he would if he’d succeeded in the actual text - which is not much, since he too fundamentally misunderstands what the beast is. He’s also deliberately vague into the hows of his survival, since he has no desire to share his immortality with anyone else than the people he chooses. We get a Gibson reference here, as one of his early “victims” - one of the original men in the Victorian expedition - who met Hickey, falls in love, but ultimately rejects him because of his own self hatred. Hickey did love him, and took a century to heal, looking for someone else. 

Francis was his first choice but Hickey rejects him in favour of Solomon - he knows that Francis is with him out of loneliness and despair, rather than anything “true”. He senses there is something “true” about what Solomon feels for him - even the violence and the self-loathing and the fear - and decides that Solomon is deserving of immortality. One of the things I reject about this fic is that I won’t be able to add “non-consensual immortality” to the tag list. Solomon’s feelings on this are never actually revealed.

Now, onto Francis. The next chapter would have been James telling him everything, because he can’t deal with the guilt. He also reveals his own heritage. Francis takes this fairly stoically (because he doesn’t understand about the nature of the beast either, yet) and says something to the effect of, “Do they think that my life is so precious to me that I wouldn’t have lain down on the rock willingly to save my home and my friends?” So, back to more cannon!Francis, who is a brave man and willing to risk his life and career in the text to get his men out, what they thought about him nonwithstanding. He thanks James for his honesty and they go into the village - Francis asks for one last drink to steady his nerves and to say goodbye to his friends and tell them that he understands. 

UNFORTUNATELY pretty much all of the dudes in town have been shredded by the beast at this point. Here we switch back to Goodsir, who gets to describe what happens as he experiences it. Eventually he realises what’s happening and tries to give himself up - but the beast ignores him. So he just walks away. As he gets further out of town he calls Silna - his mobile gets reception - and talks to her as he leaves, until she has to go - her father is dying. The last we see of him is going into the police station, covered in blood, completely unable to describe what is happening in the village. 

So we flip back to the village again. Francis and James are looking at the piles of corpses and notice that all the houses are boarded up. We find Thomas Blankey, leg ripped off, who explains what’s happened. He’s bleeding out and urges Francis and James to leave - he deserves what he’s getting, he explains stoically, and the beast will be back to finish the job and that will buy them valuable time to escape.

Then hey ho Hickey shows up again and talks at them, and Francis remarks that he liked it better when Hickey couldn’t speak. At any rate, Hickey drops the “it’s sick from what it eats” line - by sacrificing terrified and angry humans to it, the nature of the beast has fundamentally changed from something neutral to a creature of rage and bloodlust. So basically Victorians have fucked everything up by unbalancing nature. 

James asks what they can do now and Hickey shrugs and fucks off, presumably back to the fairy stones and Solomon. The two men get into James’s car and start driving away; just outside of the town, the beast makes one final appearance. James startles and drives the car into a tree. Francis manages to drag him out of the wreckage, past the edge of what he presumes is the beast’s territory, and the story ends with James’s head in Francis’s lap, hearing the noise of sirens in the distance.

Wow, this really got away from my original brief of writing a fic based on the poem "The Hireling" which I'll include here. It started a mediation on what Francis would be like without the catalyst of the failed expedition to get him away from his alcoholism and self-pity and add to that Hickey, as a supernatural force bonded with the beast, can get in to the man's psyche and events spiraling out of control from there. Anyway. Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry that I never got to complete it. Life's just like that. 

The Lammas Hireling  
by Ian Duhig

After the fair, I’d still a light heart  
and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.  
And cattle doted on him: in his time  
mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.  
Yields doubled. I grew fond of company  
that knew when to shut up. Then one night,

disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,  
I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.  
Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,  
stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,  
I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.  
To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,

the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled  
and blew the small hour through his heart.  
The moon came out. By its yellow witness  
I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.  
His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.  
His eyes rose like bread. I carried him

in a sack that grew lighter at every step  
and dropped him from a bridge. There was no  
splash. Now my herd’s elf-shot. I don’t dream  
but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns  
and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.  
It has been an hour since my last confession.


End file.
